Why not visit to see what others have written?
As Miriam heard the flap of the letter box clatter old
memories were awakened as so often these days. She recalled how her heart leapt
into her mouth and she had to caution herself against disappointment. Many mornings
the mail brought only bills and appointments for her parents who sighed and
clucked and shook their heads over them. On the days when an envelope for her dropped
onto the door mat she smiled before even opening it. Some days a bundle of letters arrived and she
had to put them in date order before opening them.
Every time she slit the envelope she imagined she could catch
the writer’s scent. She read the letter quickly, savouring the dearly-loved
handwriting and ran her fingers across the black ink before reading it again,
more slowly. Every pen stroke was precious, proof of William’s love for her.
My
Darling,
It has been so long since I
held you in my arms and kissed your lovely face. I miss you more and more with
each passing day and cannot wait to be with you once again.
A few of us went out on the
town last night. It’s not much of a town and there wasn’t much to see but it
was good to be on terra firma. Getting one’s sea legs is one thing, regaining
one’s land legs quite another. I smile when I remember how you laughed at my
rolling gait the last time I was home on leave.
I wish
I could tell you more of my daily life
but
you know that is not possible. One day . . .! Maybe that day will come soon – I’m
sure we all hope so.
Until then,
be patient my darling and know
that
I love you with all my heart. I long for the day when we can be together
forever, you, me and our children, I hope. Am I presuming too much? You do want
children, don’t you? I know you do – didn’t we decide on five? They will be the
most beautiful ever seen, I know. I will never do anything to hurt you, my
dearest one, my angle. Keep safe, sweet one. I shall.
Yours always and for ever
William
x x x
Miriam giggled a little at William’s spelling of ‘angel’ but
loved him all the more for not being absolutely perfect. She brought the paper
to her nose and sniffed it. William’s hands had been the last to touch it –
well, she knew that wasn’t strictly true; all mail had to be censored but she
thought the people who did that must recognise love letters and skim them
quickly, almost without touching them.
She must write back immediately. William had told her so often
how important her letters were and how they brought a little normality into his
life. ‘All the chaps feel the same,’ he had said when they parted after his
last leave. She had promised then that she would write every single day.
Sometimes it was hard to think what to write. Her life was very ordinary, her
days spent reading or sewing, sometimes gardening or studying a new piece of
piano music. On the most trying days she enclosed a pressed flower and told
William something about it.
She sat at her writing desk, looking out over the garden, one
finger gently touching her lips and remembering William’s ardent kisses. She
picked up her pen and unscrewed the cap.
My Dearest William,
It
gave me such joy to receive your letter this morning. It makes the sun shine
brighter, the birds sing more sweetly, the air feel fresher. Such nonsense, I
know, my darling, but truly your letters lift my spirit in a way nothing else
can, apart from your presence, naturally.
Of
course I understand the secrecy
that must necessarily surround
all of you – I would not have it otherwise and no-one I know thinks any
differently. I’m sorry the town wasn’t up to much, though part of me feels
quite glad, I should not like to think of you being tempted by glamorous ladies
in smart clubs. No, don’t worry, my love – I know your heart belongs to me.
Have you not told me so often enough? And are you not a respectable married
man? Yes, I do want children – the more the merrier, I think, but five will do
to start with.
Keep
safe, my darling. I love you
and I always will.
Your Miriam
x x x
Miriam bent to pick up the mail,
groaning a little - her back felt worse this morning after a restless night. She
sifted through the pile, sighing and clucking and shaking her head at the
proliferation of buff envelopes. She tossed them onto the hall table – they would
keep until later. For now she would take her tea onto the patio and sit in the
morning sunshine and listen to the birds.
It had been just such a morning
when William’s last letters were delivered but she had delayed opening them. It
had been a shock, receiving them from beyond the grave as it were, for the
telegram informing her of William’s death had arrived just the day before.
Miriam
gazed at her wrinkled hands and felt afresh the emptiness in her heart, less
agonising now, more of a dull ache. There had been no children, no little part
of her beloved husband to cherish. At least she still had his letters and that
was as much as she had known of him those long months he had spent at sea. She
had, too, the letters she had written him. They had been returned unopened and
that was how they had remained for she needed no reminders of the optimism and
love she had felt.
She sighed and got up. ‘Life must
go on,’ she chided herself, but some days she wondered why.